"Can You Keep A Secret?" (closed)

[CutiePie1997]

"Can You Keep A Secret?"

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Viola slowed her Harley and pulled closer to the curb and out of the city traffic. She fiddled with her gloves, then with her jacket, then her controls; although her helmet tilted this way and that to make it appear as if her eyes were on those things as she was doing her fiddling about, her gaze was actually set firmly on a section of the park where her target often took his midday walk. From behind her dark face shield, she located him. He was a hundred or more meters distant still, walking slowly her direction.

She checked traffic, then -- without causing too much of that familiar Harley exhaust blast -- accelerated, spun back the way she came, and took the left turn into the parking lot toward which the man was heading. It was only when Viola was pulling into the motorcycle parking area that she let the bike announce her presence. Peeking again down the waterfront, she saw the man look toward the noise.

She set the bike on its kickstand, dismounted, shed her helmet, and walked casually to the railing running along the river's side of the concrete path. Only when she knew her target was passing between her and the parking lot did Viola shed her leather riding jacket, then a moment later turn as if to walk parallel to the man. She glanced his direction, found him looking at her, and smiled.

"Belle journée pour une promenade, non?" Viola asked with an obvious French accent. When he didn't respond, she laughed as if embarrassed. "I say … um … nice day … for a walk … no?"

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

The sudden noisy bark of a motorcycle made the Squadron Leader look along the river bank. "Large V-twin", he thought. The sound had momentarily distracted him from the problem that he and Robert were working on, finally it seemed as if the ablation problem had been solved. As he continued towards Pont Saint Michel, he noticed a slim figure in leathers and motorcycle boots walking from the nearby car park towards the promenade alongside the quai. Her tousled fair hair tumbled to the bottom of her shoulder blades.

When he was no more than five yards from her, she elegantly shrugged her shoulders and slipped her black jacket down her back. He almost stumbled as he saw the skimpy yellow vest underneath. Her waist was tiny. He knew it was impossible, but it looked smaller than his neck. She turned to look downstream, then immediately reversed and began to walk slowly towards the cathédrale. He suppressed an involuntary gasp, for a moment his imagination had placed a small calibre bullet at the tip of her pert little breast.

When they were level, she glanced across and smiled. Quite a wide mouth, he noticed, natural eyebrows not plucked or enhanced, dyed hair beginning to show streaks of her natural colour, maybe she was growing it out. He stopped that train of thought when he began to wonder if she kept her pubes natural too, or perhaps just neatly trimmed?

"Belle journée pour une promenade, non?" he heard.

He realised that she had spoken to him, but his brain was second in the queue for blood supply at that moment and even his basic grasp of conversational French deserted him.

"I say, um, nice day.... for a walk, no?" she repeated in passable English, with the slight sexy lilt that had snared many an Englishman.

"Désolé, j'étais un peu distrait là-bas. Oui c'est ça." he stammered.

He spoke again: "It's good to get into the open air, away from the office."

Another pause: "Are you at the Université?" he asked.

 

[CutiePie1997]

The seemingly stunned man responded, "Désolé, j'étais un peu distrait là-bas. Oui c'est ça."

Viola smiled even wider. First contact, check, she thought to herself. She contemplated responding in French again but he continued, "It's good to get into the open air, away from the office."

"English," she said with a tone of approval. "I am learned … learning … being better at English."

"Are you at the Université?" he asked.

She laughed as if a bit embarrassed, she turned to face him directly, taking slow steps forward that tended to swing her hips a bit more dramatically than normal … not runway model swing but take notice of me swing. "No … no university. I have job with company … in Paris. My employeur … um … boss...? He wants me learn English. Do business with many Américains … British, too … like you. Yes, British?"

Viola listened to his response, then asked, "Maybe you help me with English...?"

She glanced toward, then pointed to a coffee cart a hundred meters down the promenade. "I buy you espresso … you teach me eight new words."

She laughed again, explaining, "Boss say … ten new words a day, soon I be qui parle couramment … fluent. Today … already learned parfois … sometimes … and étranger … foreigner."

Viola donned a devilish little smirk as she said, "I use in sentence for you, yes...? Um … I sometimes meet handsome foreigner … who teach me English words … yes?"

She began a slow turn toward the coffee cart, hoping she had her fish on the hook. She introduced herself, "Mon nom est Viola."

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Her smile widened in response to his hesitant French.

He tried again, in English, and heard her sweet lilting voice reply. With her nipple like a small pebble under that yellow vest, he hadn't a clue what she'd actually said. He tried to keep the small talk flowing and forced himself to concentrate harder on her words.

No, she wasn't a student but her boss wanted her to learn more English and she was inviting him for a coffee. He felt that he ought to check for a fairy godmother hovering nearby, or a TV crew filming for a prank show.

Viola, she's called Viola. For God's sake don't call her Violin.

"Je m'appelle Alan. You'd probably say Alain."

He wondered how he could prolong this past the coffee.

"What business does your company do?"

 

[CutiePie1997]

"Je m'appelle Alan. You'd probably say Alain."

"Yes, Alain," she said, offering out her free hand for a shake. She held his hand softly, with a touch of intimacy, and for a moment longer than what would be expected of two strangers meeting such as they were. Using the English pronunciation, she asked, "But I call you Alan ... yes?"

She released his hand almost with a sense of reluctance before turning to begin their slow walk side by side toward the coffee stand. Often, she would turn just a bit his way. It was meant to imply she wanted to face him while they chatted, but it was actually to ensure he got another opportunity to ogle her delicious breasts.

"What business does your company do?"

Viola laughed again, saying, "Oh, c'est bien au-dessus de ma tête."

She could see in Alan's face that he either didn't catch her quickly spoken words or simply didn't understand what she meant. She laughed again, made a gesture by sweeping her hand over her head, and translated, "Over my head, Alan."

Viola giggled as she reach out to clutch the Englishman's elbow playfully for a moment. As she released it she clarified, "My compagnie … um, company...? We make … um … components … little things, electronic things. They put them on rockets to make them not blow up."

She laughed again, making an explosion gesture with her hands while making an accompanying sound. "I don't make. I am only assistant de bureau … secretary. I, um … go with boss when he travels … go to meetings … talks to people … he talks, I just sit there, look pretty."

She laughed again and struck a pose for a moment. "Boss, he say compagnie sell more with pretty assistant de bureau in room. Americans, British … even Japanese … all like pretty girl in room."

Viola gave a bit of a playful shriek went a pair of roller bladers zipped passed them. She'd seen them coming, of course, but pretended to be unaware to give her an excuse to leap closer to Alan, once again clutching his arm as if needed rescue. She laughed again, apologized, and moved away … but not in too much of a rush. The pointed to the coffee stand, which was now off to their right a bit. They turned that direction.

"Like say, I do not make parts, so … don't know many about them," she continued with her tale. "I mostly type and file and … um, what call … spreadsheets...? Do lots of spreadsheets … lots of numbers on ordinateur. Sorry! On computer."

She spoke more rapidly to the man running the cart, ordering a double espresso for herself and asking Alan what he wanted. As they waited, Viola continued, "New spreadsheet today. Contract for new client … Arianespace. They make rockets."

Viola made sure she was looking into Alan's face when she mentioned the largest manufacturer and launcher of rockets in the world today. Even though he was here in Paris today walking the promenade in street clothes, back home in England Alan more often than not wore the officer's uniform of the UK's Royal Air Force. And his reason for being here in Paris was to meet with members of Arianespace to discuss a top secret project that involved Electronic Warfare, satellite lifting low orbit rockets, and a 57 year old ban on a weapon that could change the balance of power in the world.

And the reason Viola was here with Alan was that she'd been tasked with learning more about that project, those rockets, and that weapon. She'd been well briefed on what was known by her organization; she'd been training for this mission for over 9 months. Unfortunately, there were still a great many things unknown by her people about the weapon in question. Fortunately her people had a weapon of their own: Viola.

"You know Arianespace?" she asked, wondering whether he would confess his connection to the company. She doubted he would, not that he was forbidden to do so. Or, maybe he was. She'd been told that his liaison between Britain and France wasn't confidential; only the work he was doing was. But, she only knew what her people knew. For all she knew, Alan's presence in Paris was totally undercover. She added, "They send supplies to space … to space station … and satellites. Très excitant … very exciting to watch. I see launch once. Give … um..."

She ran a hand over her forearm, saying, "...chair d'oie … goose flesh...? goose pimples?"

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

As they walked toward the coffee stand, Alan thought that she was getting a little closer with every yard. There were more fleeting touches and flirty movements, the faint musk of her perfume seemed to thicken and her frequent giggling would have made him think her a teenager if it hadn't been for the ever-present swell in that skin-tight top.

She held his elbow briefly as he asked about her employment. His attention was still not entirely on her words until, in the middle of a sentence, a single word stood out: rockets.

Her musical laughter didn't have quite the same effect on Alan as just a moment ago, nor her pantomime of a noisy explosion. Although his mind had still been jumping between wondering how he'd apparently picked up a stunningly beautiful 20-something and how he could enjoy more of her company, he was sure that she'd just been trying to describe automatic fuel flow regulators. As she continued with a story about her boss basically flaunting her and encouraging her to flirt with clients, the part of him that still thought he was dreaming began to wonder whether her apparent attraction to him was quite as spontaneous as it superficially appeared.

His attention focussed fully on Viola as she shrieked at the passage of two youths on roller skates. Her grip on his bicep was almost painful until he flexed it slightly so the muscle lifted her clenched fingers off the nerve. She moved slightly away but, once again, not as far as she had come toward him. She also seemed to be heading diagonally across the pavement, so he pointed to the coffee stand, which was now a little to their right.

As they reached the cart, Viola spoke to the vendor at such a rate that Alan barely caught one word in three. She paused and turned to him to ask what he'd like. Torn between his dislike of the bitter beverage and his desire to keep the interaction going until he couldn't keep Robert waiting alone in the office any longer, he asked for a white with double milk and plenty of sugar.

Viola again chatted about her work, his attention now more on her words not her body.

"Contract for new client, Arianespace." she said.

Something in her words didn't ring true, the components she had spoken about earlier were manufactured in-house, by ArianeGroup. Perhaps it was other parts that her boss had tendered to supply. She'd said that the production side of things was, what was it? "bien au-dessus de ma tête."

Alan's days in the RAF had been spent alternating between airfields near quiet villages in the Fens and the tumult of the world's latest international conflict zone. Until he was posted to Spadeadam as part of his cover for the new launch system's development, he'd had barely any contact with the cloak-and-dagger world of the intelligence branch. He was more comfortable when things were direct and unambiguous.

Few people knew of Alan's true purpose in France, or Robert's rôle as an American sleeper concealed behind his academic position. Even the reluctant presence of his wife was another layer in the subterfuge. The whole situation frustrated him, now here was this young girl like an invigorating breeze. Maybe he'd been focusing too intently. Maybe she could refresh his stale environment. How could he entice her to stay in touch if he walked away?

"I have to get back to my colleague at the Université soon, but I haven't helped with your ten new words yet. Perhaps we could go for a meal after you finish work and I'll think of some unusual ones that you can impress your boss with?"

 

[CutiePie1997]

They were walking slowly toward a park bench to which she'd directed him when Alan suggested they get together for her missing eight new English words of the day. She smiled with delight.

"You have mobile, yes?" Viola asked, flashing her own cell phone at him. "Gimme. I say that right...? Gimme?"

She waggled her fingers at him until Alan handed over his phone. She swiped open his keypad, tapped quickly, then handed it back to him. As he was taking it, her own phone vibrated. She took it out, ended the call, and tapped the icons necessary to put him into her Contacts.

"A-l-l-e-n...?" she asked. When he corrected her, Viola asked, "Surname?"

If he told her his full surname, she would type it in, too. If he only gave her an initial or thought that his given name was enough, she would laugh and accuse him of being mysterious … maybe even a spy or fugitive or one of those supermodels who only have one name.

In the end, she would offer her hand for another too-intimate shake before telling him she was going back to stare out upon the Seine.

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Viola dropped her cup into a recycling point and moved towards a bench facing the Seine with another of her girly smiles.

“You have mobile, yes? Gimme. I say that right? Gimme?”

“Well, ‘Could I have’ might have been nicer”, Alan replied.

She paused her step and waggled her finger like a grandmother with a naughty child.

He chuckled, and gave her his BlackBerry with the hidden keyboard. She opened the tray so quickly that he knew she must be familiar with the model. The usual missed call routine took seconds to complete and then she asked the question he’d been dreading since they first met.

“Allen?”

“No, just the one ‘L’ and another ‘A’”

“Surname?”

Let’s she how she handles it, Alan thought. “Cholmondeley-Featherstonehaugh”

Viola already knew his surname from his personnel record. Her colleagues told her that many English considered it something of a joke, from the days when the variety theatre of the masses mocked the aristocracy. She knew that typing it in correctly would be a terrible mistake so she began to enter ‘Chumleefanshaw’ instead.

Alan watched her press ‘C’, ‘H’ and then a ‘U’. “No,” he laughed, “that’s not how it’s spelt. Most people put ‘Shaw’ in ‘phones.”

“OK,” she replied, obviously quite puzzled by the eccentricity of the English. Viola already found him more intriguing than the bluff American ‘alpha-males’ that she was usually targetted on and she despised the irritating immaturity of the local boys who gathered round like, what was that English phrase, ‘flies round shit’?

“I really do have to get back to work,” said Alan, “but it’s been delightful meeting you. Where do you want to go this evening?”

“Gauche, dix-neuf heures?”, she replied, slipping back into French for a moment.

“Oui, connaissez-vouz l’Alcazar?”

She knew the cosy cocktail bar well. “Absolument.”

“À plus tard”, he uttered, regretfully.

“Je serais là”, she reassured him, “and now I must go to la Cathédrale.”

Alan turned towards Rue Danton. His heart was torn between soaring and crashing as, with a flick of her leather jacket across her slim shoulders, Viola turned to walk upstream.

Four minutes later, as Alan came out of the lift in the cramped building on Rue Serpente, he heard a deep voice to his left. Robert was just emerging from the toilet. “Long lunch?”

Alan tried to divert the conversation, he wasn’t one of those arrogant men who saw an enjoyable encounter with a woman as some kind of triumph to be paraded before Caesar. “You remember Ted Taylor and Burt Freeman suggested that lubricating oil would prevent the plasma from ablating the pusher plate, but they couldn’t get an even coating spread across the entire surface?”

“Of course, that wasn’t even classified, George talks about it in his book.”

“Well I think there may be a way….”

The two men stepped back inside their shared office, deep in conversation about Alan’s revelation.”

 

[CutiePie1997]

“Cholmondeley-Featherstonehaugh.”

Viola looked up from the phone with a feigned expression of surprise as would be expected with such an unusual name. She tried three times to pronounce it back to him, giggled, apologized -- explaining that she found it uniquily curieux, uniquely curious -- and then tried to type the letters in.

"Most people put ‘Shaw’ in ‘phones,” he told her.

"Dieu merci," she said, thanking God. Viola giggled again, peeking up at Alan with a flirty expression. "Shaw is Facile, no...? Easier?"

They went their separate ways. A few minutes later, Viola's phone rang. It was her backup. After she answered in French with a greeting that said she was alone and secure, the man at the other end of the call told her in Russian, "He's back at the University. How far did you get?"

"Farther than we expected," she answered, also in Russian. That wasn't true, of course. Her handler had expected her to simply make contact, so that when the two of them happened across each other in a week or so, it wouldn't appear as if she'd marked him. Viola, however, was confident in her abilities, and she'd expected at least a dinner date. Still in Russian, she continued, "I mentioned Arianespace."

"Did he admit to being associated to them?"

"No," Viola said immediately. "Are we sure he--"

"We know he and the British, possibly even the Americans, are involved in a project. We just don't know which project. That's for you to find out."

Returning to French as a couple and their child passed by, Viola said, "I will."

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

"Late again?" Alan's wife almost screamed into the 'phone. "That's the third time this week."

Alan tried to soothe the irate woman, "You know we're close to a breakthrough, the sooner Robert and I can wrap this up the sooner I get the College of Air Warfare posting at Cranwell."

"Well I wish you didn't spend more time with Robert (she exaggerated the French pronunciation of his colleague's name to Row-bear) than you do with me."

"I promise, once we're back in Lincolnshire we'll find a little cottage to settle in after CAW."

Her voice seemed a couple of octaves lower as she acquiesced to that idea and Alan took the opportunity to excuse himself.

Two hours later, Alan stopped outside a darkened shop window in the Rue Mazarine, checked his appearance and stepped into the bar where he hoped Viola would be waiting.

 

[CutiePie1997]

(FYI: For the images of Viola below, the first pic is the model and the second pic is the dress she is currently wearing. You have to use your imagination in combining the two.)


Viola wasn't there ... as Alan was so desperately hoping.

Not yet, anyway.

She was sitting down the block in a van with windows as dark as those of the shop in which Alan was checking his look. Her partner, Viktor -- a Ukranian-Russian with German blood as well -- said in his awkward, monotone French, "Il pense qu'il est assez beau pour gagner ton Coeur."

"He is handsome enough to win my heart, asshole," she responded in Ukrainian. To the untrained ear, it would have sounded as though Viola was speaking Russian. The two languages were very similar, and more often than not even Europeans who weren't semi-fluent in one or both wouldn't detect the difference. Knowing that Victor's English was relegated to hot dog, asshole, and $50, you suck dick, yes, she continued in Ukrainian, "But since I'm not here looking for a husband … nor is he, since he'd married … I guess I'll just have to ignore how good looking he is."

Viktor only laughed, watching his partner of several years exit the back end of the van. Viola had traded in her leather jacket, her nipple bearing tee, her ass hugging riding pants, and her tall, leg-emphasizing, leather boots for something that was a little more appropriate for dinner with a new friend. Or … was it?

Viola donned a thin, white, calf-long, semi-sheer overcoat that would hide the erotic nature of the underlying outfit, then headed down the block and across the street on tall heels that clicked and echoed off the stone and brick buildings. She knew Viktor was watching her, just as they had been watching Alan earlier. She entered the bar with a nervous expression on her face, as if feeling desperately out of place. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Alan standing to be seen. She smiled, waved tentatively, then headed his way. Being French -- or, at least, pretending to be so -- she leaned in and kissed one of Alan's cheeks, then the other.

The hostess/coat check girl offered to take Viola's outer layer. Viola thanked her and slid it off her shoulders to reveal the thin, sexy, body hugging dress below. As with her earlier outfit, Viola's curves were dramatically on display. She turned back to Alan and caught him taking a gander … and laughed nervously.

"Ma copine, elle m'a dit que--" Viola stopped suddenly, laughed again, apologized, then repeated in English, "My girlfriend … um … camarade de chamber … room mate...? This her dress. She say I wear to make, um … I cannot remember words … les yeux de l'homme sortent de sa tête…"

She raised her hands before her eyes with their finger tips touching, then flicked them open quickly. Laughing yet again, she translated, "Man's eyes pop out of your head."

Viola glanced down at the sexy dress, then up again. Her face was very red; she'd learned how to feign a blush as a teen, which had gotten her both out of and into a great deal of trouble, depending upon which was her aim. The waitress arrived to take their drink orders, and Viola -- not knowing if they were getting wine or champagne or hard alcohol -- only gestured to Alan, saying, "You choose, yes?"

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Alan seldom drank, but his surprise at seeing Viola hand her coat to the fille de vestiaire to reveal her in a dress that hugged even closer to her firm flesh than her vest and leathers made him think that a little alcohol wouldn't go amiss. He caught the attention of the serveuse and ordered a bottle of mid-range Champagne.

He looked deep into her eyes, as much to keep them away from the penny-sized areolæ and hard nipples that were so evident beneath the translucent dress as to reinforce the connection between his unlikely date and himself.

"OK," he said, "how do I know which words you haven't learned yet?"

Her English by the quai had been so natural that he knew this ten words a day lark was some sort of ruse. He wondered what the real reason was that made her flirt with someone 30 years older and two stones overweight. Not that he was in any hurry to stop it, mind. Not only was his mind curious about her motives, but his body was aching to hold her close and join them as one. He waited eagerly, but nervously, for her response.

 

[CutiePie1997]

Viola could see in Alan's body language and quick darts of his eyes that he was having a helluva time keeping his gaze above her collar bones. That was good, of course. If her handlers had thought they could get to the man through a method other than pure lust they would have sent someone else.

"OK," he said, "how do I know which words you haven't learned yet?"

She laughed playfully, yet again blushing. She turned her attention to the opening and pouring of their champagne, then to Alan. With a deliberate attempt at getting her words and grammar correct, she explained slowly, "My boss wants me to learn to speak of work … of our industry. Maybe … maybe words about work."

She lifted her flute of bubbly before her for a clinking of glass, sipped, then continued, "I tell how what I need say … no … I tell you … um, what I need to say to English or American … and you tell me right or wrong … yes?"

They began chatting about her company and what it specifically did. It was called Dynamique du Flux de Carburant, which translated essentially to a very simple corporate name of Fuel Flow Dynamics. It was a legitimate company with legitimate investors from France, the UK, the US, and other Western Countries. Viola even had an actual job there, with an actual boss, time card, pay stubs, and more. If, in the future, Alan's people ever checked into her, they would find exactly what she was leading Alan to believe: she was a Personal Assistant to a Mid-Level Manager in the International Sales and Service Division.

She tried to explain what she did specifically, which turned out to be very little more than she'd already told him at lunch. But as they spoke, she took little opportunities to ask Alan how he would describe things in his job, or to his coworkers, or to people who spoke other languages. Essentially, she was trying to get Alan to talk more about himself than she was about herself. But Viola was good at being casual and unobtrusive about such questions; it was the reason they'd chosen her over even more beautiful, more sexy women … she knew how to talk to men.

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Viola jiggled again. All through the meal, Alan had noticed that almost every movement that she made involved a slight shrug of the shoulders or a shimmy of her upper torso. The effect on her breasts, even though they weren't enormous, simply enhanced his existing desire for her. He wanted to taste her nipples with his lips and tongue, to caress her exquisite, flat stomach, to feel her skin respond to his firm but gentle touch, to hear her soft sounds as he found her most sensitive areas. The small talk had not moved much further than the descriptions of various mechanical components and the meal was nearly over. Alan was wondering what he could do to keep her near when she suggested a stroll to the gardens where the old palace used to stand.

Alan settled the bill and waited by the door for Viola to retrieve her coat. He glanced outside and noticed the wet pavement. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. Once they began to walk together, Viola linked her arm with his and, in her heels, was tall enough to occasionally rest her cheek on his shoulder.

As they crossed the bridge onto the Île de la Cité, they paused to look at the padlocks on the railings. Every few months the city authorities would cut them off, claiming they were unsightly and, within a few days, another batch of hopeless romantics had proclaimed their undying love by attaching new ones. As they stood, Alan behind Viola, he reached round her and gently held across her abdomen, just above the hips.

She raised her head to look over her shoulder at him and smiled.

After a moment, Viola turned towards the island and took his hand. The unlikely pair stepped off the bridge and turned to the left into the triangular open space in front of them which led to a sharp point where the sundered waters of the Seine rejoined. They slowly moved to the viewpoint and looked across the bend of the south bank to the distant shape of the tower. Patterns of light danced rhythmically across its steel beams and the hypnotic effect captivated the couple for a while. As they stood, in the same embrace as on the bridge, Viola shivered a little and pressed her shapely bottom against Alan's body. He moved one hand higher, until it was almost brushing the undersides of her pert breasts.

She made a quiet purring noise. Alan held himself still, feeling that any other movement would break the spell. He had to see her again, had to know more about this enigmatic woman in his arms. All through the evening's conversation she had hardly revealed anything other than her life as the firms untouchable eye-candy. Well she was definitely being touched now, Alan thought, but only her skin, I can't touch her mind.

"I want to stay like this for a very long time," he said, "but I have to go and you're starting to shiver."

 

[CutiePie1997]

Viola made it clear almost from the moment they exited the restaurant that she wanted to be closer to Alan, physically. She'd latched onto his arm and leaned into him; she'd let him hold her close so closely that she could feel his swelling cock at the meeting of her firm ass cheeks; and now she was turning to face him, standing on her toes, taking his cheeks into her soft hands, and pressing a gentle yet romantic kiss to his lips.

"J'aimerais que tu me fasses l'amour," she whispered. She couldn't tell from Alan's expression whether he wasn't able to fully interpret the words or had interpreted them and was shocked. She repeated her statement in English, "I would like to make love with you."

A smile and a blush filled her face as Viola backed away, just out of Alan's reach. She laughed, embarrassed, saying quickly in French and then immediately paraphrasing and translating in English, "Je suis vraiment désolé, vraiment très désolé. I'm so sorry. I did not mean now, Alain … Alan … I meant..."

She moved up close to him again, taking his hands in her. Trying to get her words straight, she explained, "You are nice man … no! You are ... wonderful man. I like you, very much. I … I do not want to go ... even if snow fall on me and be colder."

Viola moved in close again, put a hand to the back of Alan's neck, and urged him to bring his mouth to her. This kiss was passionate, with parted lips and gently playing tongues. Viola's free hand was on the man's chest, and she gripped her nails into his skin just enough that might feel a tad bit of pain.

"J'aimerais que tu me fasses l'amour," she said, repeating her desire for him to be her lover. Her expression turned a bit dour, though, as she pressed her body against his, curling her goose bump covered arms in between their chests. "I do not know you, Alan. But … I wish know you."

Again, she pulled her head back to look up into his eyes. "Promise me to see me again … to know you … to know you enough … to be with you. Promets-moi … promise … see me again soon … many times."

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Turning in his embrace, Viola stretched her body upwards and tilted her neck back. She gently kissed him and then whispered words he had been longing, yet fearing, to hear. For a moment he couldn't answer. He suspected, but couldn't prove, that his wife had been unfaithful during his long foreign deployments. Even so, what she was offering was an enormous step. The gulf between fantasising about this young woman and the reality of her stark proclamation was so great.

She pulled back suddenly, her embarrassment evident. The jumbled mixture of French and halting English which tumbled from her mouth surprised Alan almost as much as her plainly stated invitation. Her previous near-fluency in a slightly American version of English had suddenly deserted her and it seemed like the shy young girl inside her was visible for a fleeting instant.

She thought he was wonderful, Alan's brain subconsciously registered before her lips again pressed up to his own. He opened his mouth very slightly and instantly the tip of her tongue was resting on his. He returned the gentle pressure and felt another, sharper, touch on the skin above his heart. Again Viola repeated her insistent statement.

Alan ached to slide a hand across one of those perfect breasts, but she held herself so close that there was no space between them. Perhaps his face showed his disappointment, because she released him slightly. His fear left him as she whispered, "Promise me to see me again."

"I will," he assured her, "I don't know how, but I will."

He pulled her close again, feeling that shimmy that rubbed her breasts against his chest and her pubis against his half-erect shaft.

"Tomorrow, at noon on the lovers' bridge," he managed to gasp.

He saw that smile spread upwards from her lips to her eyes again. "Oui," just one word that changed everything.

 

[CutiePie1997]

"I will," Alan assured Viola about meeting with her again, "I don't know how, but I will."

They embraced again, and Viola found it nice for two very different reasons: first, she'd reached the next phase in the mission in remarkable time; and second, Alan did in fact feel good to press against. Viola had had to seduce men who in that personal part of her life she would have had no attraction. Alan was handsome and -- while a bit heavier than the norm for his height and build -- a well put together man. Having sex with him was her job, of course, or at least an important element. But Viola had already concluded that she wouldn't mind having him inside her. He was, as she'd said to him, a nice man. A wonderful man...? She hadn't gotten that far yet. But there was still a possibility that he was just the type of man she would want in her life if ever she decided to add one to it.

"Tomorrow, at noon on the lovers' bridge," he managed to gasp.

She kissed him passionately again. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught an approaching taxi. She waved frantically at it, and when it began slowing, Viola repeated to him, "Tomorrow … noon … on our bridge."

She wrapped her thin coat tighter around her body as she began backing away. Viola raised her fingertips to her lips and blew him a kiss before turning and hurrying off toward the cab. As she stepped into it, she hollered back to him, "Regulation!"

Viola laughed at her remembrance of one of the English words Alan had taught her tonight. She kept her eyes on him the entire time the taxi was driving away. She was barely a minute out of his sight when her cell rang. Again, Viola gave her partner an update. They made their plans for the next day, including how Viktor would stay close without being seen. A few minutes after that, she was in her apartment, stripping out of the almost-not-there dress and panties to take a relaxing bath.

As she lay in the hot bubble bath, she reviewed all Alan had told her today. He had spoken of his work in very vague terms, and to be honest he hadn't told her anything she didn't already know. But tonight hadn't been about uncovering the American's Manhattan Project or learning that the Brits had retrieved an Enigma machine. It had been about getting Alan to be more comfortable about speaking openly with Viola. She felt she'd gotten much farther than her handlers had expected.

[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] []​

The next day at noon, Alan was once again seemingly being stood up. Then, a familiar sound filled his ears. A moment later, Viola appeared at the end of the bridge on her Harley, racing between cars, switching lanes three times in under 100 meters, and then crossing opposite traffic to practically skid her Harley to a stop just 2 meters from where Alan stood. She was once again wearing her leathers: tall boots, leg hugging pants, and decades old jacket, this time with its snaps hiding the delicious bosom he'd seen the day before.

She flipped up her visor and smiled to Alan, then gestured to the helmet fastened to the seat rail behind her. "It should fit. Come with me..."

Her lips spread in a wicked smile as she slid forward a bit and added, "If dare you."

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

Alan's words from the night before came back to haunt him. "I don't know how, but I will." he'd said. It took almost all morning to piece together the convoluted arrangements necessary to spend a night away from his domestic life. Robert had gone to see a potential source for the polymer mix which would be needed for the casing filler and he would be away for two days, so Alan was saved that explanation. Thankfully the bridge was less than ½ mile away from the University buildings.

He'd reached the crossing to find that Viola wasn't there. He shivered involuntarily, thinking of the myriad of ways this assignation could all fall apart. Then the familiar V-twin rumble made him look across the island to the north bank. The small frame of the girl was weaving the heavy motorcycle through the Parisian traffic with remarkable dexterity. Her Harley, built for the open spaces of the American mid-west, didn't have the sporting heritage of his own steed, which was in storage at that remote moorland base back in England.

The front forks dipped sharply as she pulled to a halt a couple of yards from him. She waved nonchalantly at a helmet fastened to the sissy-bar behind the pillion. "That should fit."

Alan turned the helmet upside--down. 56 declared the sticker. Puzzled by that fact, he totally missed the challenge that her next sentence threw at him. It must have been two decades since Alan had pillioned another rider; in the parlance of an old club he used to ride with near Saltfleetby: navigated. He was used to being the pilot, on a motorcycle if not in an aircraft. He'd already seen that Viola was a rapid rider, so he knew this was going to be no hands-on-thighs cruise through the city. Did he put his arms backwards and use the sissy-bar, or forwards and wrap them round her voluptuous body?

The Harley didn't accelerate as quickly as his Trophy, but without handlebars to grip, his only support was Viola's waist. ...and there isnt much of that... he thought. She was fast, almost recklessly so, but she was smooth, he noticed. After a few minutes, the old rhythm returned and he was swaying through the corners perfectly parallel to her body, anticipating her moves so that the close proximity of their helmets didn't become a jarring smack.

As they left the chaos of the inner city and entered the suburbs, progress became - though no means sedate - a little steadier than their earlier headlong rush. She twisted her head and lifted her visor to smile at him. He nodded and tapped her right thigh twice. With her left hand, she reached down and across to pull his hand back into a tight embrace on her taut belly. As a toned, flat stomach was one of Alan's erogenous triggers, he didn't struggle.

 

[CutiePie1997]

Viola could tell from the moment Alan slipped onto the bike behind her that he was familiar with riding bikes. Of course, she knew a little bit about men and motorcycles; they didn't often ride on the back, even in this era of increasing presence and rights of the female species. She'd read that Alan had had a bike or had been in an MC or something like that, though; she'd have to check her notes again later. All that mattered now was that as they headed away from the bridge, they seemed to function upon the Harley as if just a single rider.

She hated riding this particular bike in the city. Although she couldn't know it, both she and Alan were thinking that the Harley's true natural habitat was the open road. Even when they got out of the city proper and into the more open suburbs and then countryside, she still couldn't open her up; although the traffic was more sparse, the roads were just as narrow and sometimes filled with the romantic scenes viewers found in travel shows about France, such as flocks of sheep and slow moving, horse pulled straw wagons.

But they managed to get to Viola's destination, a small inn on a tall, forested hillock that overlooked a wide, flat valley of a tributary of the Seine. It was what Westerners called a Bed & Breakfast, but was even more as well with a small café that was open to the non-guest public. Currently, there were three cars and a foursome of smaller motorcycles in the gravel parking lot.

Viola was almost sad to have the ride end; most of the way she had had Alan's inner thighs pressed against her own thighs and her buttocks, as well as his hands upon her flat, firm belly … and she was surprised at just how much she liked his touch.

She switched the bike off, waited for Alan to dismount, then kicked down the stand. Shedding her helmet and shaking out her hair like a lion getting comfortable on the Serengeti, Viola pulled out her phone to look at the time. She donned a sad expression, almost pouting out her bottom lip before apologizing, "Is too long away from work...? Please, Alan … tell me we have time to lunch...?"

He told her they did, which made Viola smile broadly. She set aside her helmet, removed her gloves and dropped them inside it, and reached out for his hand for help rising off the bike. She didn't need the help, obviously; it was just a way to once again be in physical contact with him. As he helped her to her feet, Viola would move up close to him and try to get a little public display of affection involving his lips; if he showed hesitation, what with the possibility of prying eyes beyond the cafe's glass, she wouldn't feel offended.

Inside, she was surprised to find only the four bikers in attendance, sitting at a corner table drinking coffee and eating pastries. She spoke to the hostess in French, casually inquiring about the cars; she then explained to Alan that the most of the inn's guests had gone into the city on a bus tour, leaving their cars behind.

They got a small table in the furthest most corner from the bikers and ordered a bottle of local wine and lunch. Viola asked Alan how long a lunch he could take and showed her delight when he said he could take as long as he wanted. "And my words...?"

They spent the time waiting for their meal playfully going over a new batch of English words. As she had the previous day, Viola tried to guide Alan toward words and the associated conversation and use of them that might get him to speak about his own job, rather than just Viola's. He was being protective of his professional life; Viola understood that, of course, knowing that his work was classified.

"I tell you my nom de l'entreprise … my, um … company name," she reminded him casually. "Do you tell me your compagnie…? I forget, sorry."

She was eager to see just what Alan would say about the source of his income. Would he outright lie? Would he tell a cover story? Just how much of his background did he consider classified and/or too personal to tell a woman he'd only met the day before, regardless of how badly he wanted to be ball's deep inside her delicious body?

They finished their meal and had just been served their dessert when Viola asked the hostess, "Avez-vous une chambre disponible ... maintenant, pour la soirée?"

The woman looked to Alan questionably, then back to Viola. "Ouais... un lit simple."

"Est-il prêt maintenant?" Viola asked, wondering whether or not Alan was picking up the rapidly spoken conversation.

The woman looked a bit uncomfortable, as if being asked a question she didn't typically get asked on the spur of the moment by a young woman with an obviously much older man … unless said woman was possibly a professional looking for a place to do her trade. She only responded with a tentative nod of her head.

After the hostess departed, Viola looked back to Alan, sipped at her wine, and explained in barely more than a whisper, "You remember I wished know you better … better, to make love with...? The inn … it has, um chambre vacante … vacancy...?"

She looked down to the table a moment, bringing on one of her deep blushes before finishing without looking into Alan's eyes, "If you wanted … if … if you feel about me … like I do you...?"

Viola only then looked up to her lunch partner with an almost panicked expression, like she was afraid she was moving too quickly.

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

As Viola slowed behind yet another overloaded cart full of moulding vegetables, Alan muttered a curse about inefficient French farmers subsidised by British contributions to the CAP. He shifted his hands slightly, but his right thumb kept fluttering in gentle circles around the edge of her navel. When she had the chance on the rural roads, Viola had let the 1600 engine bite and the air flowing along the sides of the tank blew straight on Alan's hands. As she hadn't brought gloves for him, he decided that the best place to keep them warm was under her jacket. He had eased it up slightly and found, to his surprise and delight, that any top she was wearing left at least four inches bare above her tight trousers.

At the first touch of his cold hands, she twitched, but then her left one came down and pressed on his clasped pair, tucking them inside the hem of the jacket. Since then, he had been idly twiddling with her soft flesh and squeezing her thighs inside his own and he wasn't quite as irritated by the 12th century farming practices as he usually would be.

Eventually, they pulled onto a gravel car park by a small hotel and bar. The group of motorcycles outside looked too dainty to belong to members of a backpatch club, for which Alan gave an imperceptible sigh of relief. He hoped that, like him, they were outside the complex heirarchy of the bike gang culture or the afternoon would be spoilt by political tiptoeing.

"We have time to lunch?" she asked, once she had shaken her tresses loose.

"Plenty," he replied. Her hand reached up for his, she certainly didn't need his help to dismount so he boldly decided she wanted a more intimate form of contact. As her far leg cleared the saddle and she balanced on the nearer one, he gave a brief pull and she toppled into his waiting arms. Their tongues danced the mouth tango for a moment and then Alan set her back on her feet.

Entering the rustic main building they found only the motorcyclists. Alan was mildly amused to see them munching sticky French pastries. As he'd hoped, they were just a group of local friends enjoying the food.

There was a small table away from the door which had a continuous corner bench instead of two chairs. Viola unfastened her leather jacket before sitting on one end of the bench and Alan was pleased to see that his guess about the brevity of the garment beneath was correct. Once their choices were made, she again asked how much time he had and, apparently satisfied with an answer of "a day and a night", slid along the bench towards Alan who lifted his arm to allow her head to rest between chest and bicep. "My words?" she teased.

They seemed to be in a kind of game today. Viola tried to guide Alan toward words that might get him to speak about his job, whilst he aimed to steer the talk towards erotic and blatantly sexual terms.

She tried to be a little more direct, but still casual. "Do you tell me your compagnie? I forget, sorry."

"I work for the British military," he replied quite openly. "I used to navigate aeroplanes but now I do a little teaching, I try to improve our methods and equipment and sometimes I invent things that would make it harder for someone to attack my country."

When the waitress brought the final course, Viola entered a rapid-fire discourse with the older woman. Alan struggled with the language spoken at that pace, but he caught the words: room... now... evening... a single... and finally now again.

Once the waitress went back to the kitchen, Viola reminded Alan of the desire she had first expressed under the trees of the Vert-Galant. "The inn," she continued, "it has, um chambre vacante, a vacancy."

She looked down to the table, blushing deeply. "If you feel about me, like I do you?"

When she raised her head, Alan thought Viola looked like a frightened deer. He reached over and took her nearest hand in both of his, then let a gradual smile spread across his entire face. "Let's go for a walk in the woods."

The amorous couple didn't walk very far that afternoon. Most of their time was spent in deep kisses and fleeting explorations of the skin that wasn't hidden by fabric. During their slow meander, Alan spotted a fallen tree trunk whose upper surface was at the same height as the top of Viola's toned legs. He thought for a moment about his passion for outdoor love and imagined bending her across it before plunging deep inside her, but he wanted something special for their first time, he wanted it to be gentle and sensuous, in a proper bed.

As the sun reddened in the evening sky, they reluctantly turned back towards the lights that now glowed dimly through the yellowing leaves. Inside, when she saw them enter, their lunchtime waitress crossed the room and, with a disapproving expression she found hard to disguise, handed Alan a key.

 

[CutiePie1997]

"I work for the British military."

Viola's eyes opened a bit wider in feigned surprise. She said in her also feigned accent and with a sense of sexual interest, "Mmm ... soldier boy ... girls, they like a man in uniform ... but ... no uniform...?"

He explained about his former job then his newer one. She knew that the latter was just his cover, of course. He and his division was up to more than simply teaching national defense techniques. But that was why she was here, of course, to find out just what her people didn't know.

After her exchange with the hostess, Viola found herself being asked outside for a walk. She gladly accepted, knowing it meant more hand in hand, arm in arm, and body against body encounters. Every time the pair of them got intimate, it just got Viola closer to her goal.

They strolled back into the Inn and were handed a key to a room. Viola reached into her pocket for a small wallet and removed a credit card. If Alan didn't step up and demand to pay, Viola would had the card to the woman; if he did, she would tell him that this was her idea, her invitation, and that she should pay … and yet … she would allow him to do so anyway. By now, Viktor -- who was parked 6 miles from here at a telephone junction box -- would have installed a little box that would capture information from Alan's credit card via the Inn's communications lines. From here on, they would be able to track every purchase he made with the card and, in some cases, know exactly what he purchased. It might not mean anything to them at all, but you never knew. They might one day need to know where he is, and a card purchase would tell them that.

Once the payment was made, Viola took the key from Alan and led him up the stairs. In addition to learning how to force a blush in her face, Viola had learned to cause a slight trembling in her hands. She did that now, to insinuate that she was nervous about what she was doing. She opened the room and led him inside, turning immediately to wrap her arms around his torso for a long, intimate hug.

"Désolé, Alan," she said, her face still against his chest. In her low heel riding boots, she pressed lower against his body than she had the night before in her 4 inch heels. She repeated in English what she'd said in French, then added to it, "Sorry, Alan. I am … nervous. I do not do such things. I am not a … what is English word for such femmes en vrac … sluts?"

She pulled her face back and looked into his eyes. "I am not a femmes en vrac. I … I just like you … want to be with you."

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

As Viola opened the door to the small single room, she turned and held Alan. He finally grasped what had been puzzling him all afternoon, she was taller when they were in the Vert-Galant.

She tried to reassure him that this moment was special, that he was special. Alan hushed her in the most effective way he knew: a long deep kiss. He ran his fingers through her unruly hair and let the back of his right hand make almost imperceptible contact with her cheek. Still he jousted with her tongue. His other hand spread open across the small of her back and he drew her pelvis closer to his loins. He knew there would be nothing there for her to feel, but that would soon change. A long time ago, one of his girlfriends had joked that he wasn't a grower, he was the grower.

 

[CutiePie1997]

Alan felt wonderful in Viola's arms, and she very nearly had to remind herself that she was working a mark. Enjoying sex and not caring too much about with whom she was having it made performing this particular task easy for Viola. Of course, being with an attractive, charming man helped. The last two men she'd seduced for similar reasons had certainty not been as easy to accept as was Alan.

After a long, passionate moment in the Englishman's arms, Viola extracted from Alan's arms and backed away into the room. She shed he leather jacket, then pointed to the floor before Alan as he neared her and commanded, "Stand there ... no father."

She smiled with that slightly embarrassed expression he'd seen so much if the past day plus. Sitting on the edge of the quilt-covered bed, she ran down the zippers on the insides of her riding boots and shed them. She stood again, unsnapped her leather pants, and wiggled out of them, too. She was wearing a tight fitting sleeveless shirt similar to the one she'd had on when she first met Alan; with a pull upwards from her belly, it was shed as well, though she quickly moved it in front of her chest, shyly hiding her bosom.

Now in nothing more than her thong, Viola meekly asked, "You are a good man, Alan ... yes...?"

As he was about to respond, Viola let her hands and the blouse in them slide slowly downward to her belly, revealing her firm, gravity defying B-cups to his view. Then, tentatively, she reached a hand out to him, waggling her finger tips as she asked, "Will you shower with me?"

 

[TheWorldBuilder]

She was undressing in front of him, why was his brain trying to correct her English when she mixed up father and farther? Nerves, it must be. Now those tight pants stretched as she pushed them over her arse and down those beautiful thighs - the ones his lower body had been wrapped around this morning. Next the vest, similar to the one she had worn just yesterday when he first saw her. It wasn't any shorter, had his imagination created that 4" gap that his roving fingers exploited during their ride. His desire to see her pert nipples was thwarted as she flourished the top like a bullfighter's cape and brought it straight back across her breasts as they bounded free. No bra.

His flaccid 2" had certainly begun its Jack and the Beanstalk routine now. He could feel the tension as it pressed uncomfortably against his clothing. He should be removing something, but he was mesmerised by the figure before him. She lowered her hands to the front of her thong and he thought he heard angels, as he finally had a clear view of her breasts and their perfect nipples. He knew for sure that it was heaven when the angelic voice suggested they have sex in water.

 

[CutiePie1997]

When Alan did no more than just stand there and ogle her with somewhat of a shocked look, Viola lifted her blouse to hide her bosom again. Her face filled with a sad expression as she asked, "Have I done something wrong … Alan … S'il vous plait … what … what is wrong?"